


how slender the space

by leiascully



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Community: dogdaysofsummer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-07
Updated: 2006-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry is not Sirius' thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how slender the space

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: post-Hogwarts  
> A/N: The prompt was the line of poetry in the story.  
> Disclaimer: _Harry Potter_ and all related characters are the property of JK Rowling and Scholastic. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

"How slender is the space between love, mercy, and ill will," says Remus, turning the pages of the musty old book he has found somewhere on the shelves in this musty old bookstore. He is irritatingly absorbed in the book and Sirius is tired of books anyway. But it is raining and Sirius does not want to leave yet, so he prowls the shelves and pulls romances from the shelves to laugh at the love scenes, but it is almost a bark. Remus at him over one sweatered shoulder: it is cold for a London summer, in the grey rain, and Remus smells of wet wool, and Sirius knows exactly how slender the space is between love and ill will.

"Are you laughing at Poetry, Sirius?"

"I'm laughing at you, you literary ponce," says Sirius, but under his breath and without venom. He and Remus have been living cheek by jowl in a small flat for weeks, but the walls are thin enough that sometimes he suspects the whole city lives in their building. This involuntary proximity is a shock after the lonely rooms of the Black mansion and even after the sprawl of the Potters' house. They suffer from a paucity of silverware and it is none of it real silver and all ugly, so that he ends up using Remus' oatmeal spoon to stir his tea. Sirius is bored with their ugly decor and the poor selection of rooms and poverty in general, and he is restless despite Remus' passion and Remus' mercy. He knows his ill will is misplaced and so he is cranky, but the roads are slick and the clouds are low and it is not a good day for his motorbike, however fierce the the joy of soaring above the congested streets with the thrum of crowds like grey blood in grey veins while his blood is red and wild. He wants to be with Remus and he wants to escape Remus and he knows Remus knows all of this, with all the poetry in his head.

He has his nose in a terrible book, looking for a love scene, when he is startled by Remus' arms around him. Remus takes the book and shelves it carefully, passing it from hand to hand around Sirius' ribs, and then laces his fingers through Sirius'.

"I know," says Remus slowly, "how you feel about Poetry, and how you feel about sticky spoons and how you hate bookstores and rainy days and small flats and forgiveness." He kisses the hollow of Sirius' cheek, which is all he can reach.

"You smell like wet wool," says Sirius, leaning back against Remus in his holey sweater.

"You smell like wet dog," says Remus affably, "but I will take you home and put you in the tub where it is at least warm and wet, and then there will be towels, and then there will be toast, because nothing cures rainy ennui like marmalade."

"Our flat is a ventricle," mutters Sirius.

"But the romance of it," says Remus, and kisses the place behind Sirius' ear that ends all arguments.


End file.
